11 December 2016

Heros for our children

I can’t claim to remember the specifics. Yes, I’m old enough to have been in school, but there were a lot of other things going on during those school days.

Still, by all reports I was obsessed with astronauts and space. I’d spend hours with the pictures in Life magazine. I had coloring books and sticker books and a paperback version of You Will Go to the Moon. I was a major Alan Shepard fan, but John Glenn was mighty cool too.

But if I can’t quite remember I still know the scene exactly. My gigantic elementary school had a thousand-theater-seat auditorium, but that wasn’t nearly big enough for the whole school. Across the main hall from that giant room was a smaller, more ‘spartan’ space — maybe 250 seats without cushions, but still an auditorium — though we called it the “General Purpose Room.” It’s is that room that I have in my vision.

An enormous — black and white of course — television on a huge rolling stand has been wheeled to the center of the stage, and tuned to Channel 2, WCBS-TV, and Walter Cronkite. And we would watch, waiting for the moment when we could shout the countdown along with — was it Chris Kraft? — as soon as we got to “T minus 10.”

Once upon a time we were surrounded by heros. Listen, I could add the postmodern spin here — John Glenn was the third human to orbit the earth and the fifth to be launched into space, not exactly Columbus — but my point is the opposite. So, once upon a time we were surrounded by heros.

I came to world awareness surrounded by John Fitzgerald Kennedy, The American Astronauts, Pope John XXIII, Martin Luther King, John Lewis, Robert Kennedy, Walter Reuther, Mickey Mantle, Willie Mays, Sandy Koufax… a pantheon laid on top of the heroic narrative of our fathers and grandfathers who had crushed Nazism, defeated Imperial Japan, tamed the nucleus of the atom, and beaten the Great Depression.

Heros matter.

About five years ago I stood outside the White House fence in Washington DC. On my right was an African-American mother and perhaps 10-year-old son. And I realized, in that moment, the power in the face that that little boy knew that the President inside that mansion looked like him. Just as John Kennedy’s election had meant so much to my father — and thus, by extension, to me. I had hoped this January might bring a similar effect for our girls, but…

And we don’t offer our children heroes any more. We offer celebrities, but that is different. There are some really nice sports figures these days, but where is the heroism of Curt Flood — tossing away his career for a point about race and labor. Or even a Sandy Koufax — refusing to pitch a World Series game because of his religion. I sort of hoped that LeBron James would walk the small cities of Ohio campaigning for what he believed in, risking his home state popularity for a cause… but that didn’t happen

.

There are some good politicians, but where is the John Kennedy going into Protestant Texas to talk about religion? Or Attorney General Robert Kennedy going into fully segregated Georgia to demand and integrated nation? Where is even the Nelson Rockefeller actually getting things hurled in his face as he tried to stop his political party’s roll to extremism? Where are the political leaders marching at the head of anti-racism protests, daring the police to hit them first?

Where are those who take enormous personal risks to take a stand or do a job?

Heroism matters.

Heroism takes many forms. But I just want to be clear, heroism is never the act of being unafraid. If you are unafraid and do something incredibly risky you are either uninformed or just dumb. Heroism is doing that risky thing despite being terrified.

____________

"Most people admired Koufax for putting his religion before his job. I’m sure there were others who were furious, saying that he wasn’t that religious -- and I don’t think he really was -- but that didn’t make any difference. It was his decision and everyone respected it. They understood."- Longtime Dodgers broadcaster Vin Scully

____________

Yuri Gargarin was afraid. John Glenn was afraid. I’m damn sure John Kennedy was afraid when his PT boat was cut in half. I sure know I was afraid many nights when I was a cop in New York. John Lewis was afraid when he stood in front of protesters and faced police clubs and dogs. Curt Flood had to be afraid as he tossed away the only career he knew.

_________________

“For the record, Flood gave up the $100,000 the Phillies would have paid him for the 1970 season to challenge the reserve clause. How many of those who vilified Curt Flood would have given up their jobs to fight for a principle? Not many.”

__________________

And this model is important.

Kids need to know that risk is ok. That high risk is ok. That fear is ok. That overcoming fear is, dare we say? Noble.

And if this is important, how do we bring this to our students?

The Hero Model

Is the hero model still possible? I think it may be but we need to build it carefully. We have children in our schools whose parents, uncles, aunts, siblings, cousins may be in heroic professions — combat military, police officers, firefighters, emergency medical services — and that’s great but it should never be our job to raise one family’s choices over another’s when talking to kids.

We of course have those same people — not directly related — within our communities and we can ask them to be present and to talk — in age appropriate ways — about risk and fear and responsibility.

And we have history. How do we talk about historical heroes in ways both real and yet effective. I’m not talking about ancient history, like the heroes of my youth necessarily, though they’re included, but any heroes. And maybe that begins with how do we find heroes…

____________________

“Not all acts of heroism need to have a global effect to be defined as brave or courageous. There are many people who, in a variety of ways, have taken up causes in their daily lives. Their efforts show how simply getting involved can open doors to bigger projects involving human rights or rescue opportunities.” — Teaching Tolerance

____________________

A few years ago I worked with some high school students on John Kennedy’s book Profiles in Courage. It’s a hard book to read now, with not just an academic writing style but a curiously mid-century moral neutrality as to purpose. And yet, it got the kids thinking about political courage. Who demonstrates it now? I suggested a few unheard-of people to them. I asked them to look at Robert Schuman, a French politician who had already been disgraced because of his decisions, who risked his very fragile post-World War II government to make a radical kind of peace with Germany — a peace that has grown into the European Union, and which turned the blood-soaked continent of Europe into the world’s most peaceful, prosperous, and democratic place. Then I presented Everett Dirksen, a right-wing Republican, war hawk, opponent of the idea of ‘one man/one vote,’ who nevertheless joined liberal mid-1960s Democrats to pass the Civil Rights Acts over the opposition of Southern Democratic Senators.

So, one man who briefly collaborated with the Nazis occupying France but who risked all for a united Europe. Another, who thought big city voters should have less of a vote than rural voters (as Trump Republicans do, the idea has not gone away), but who helped pass the most significant civil rights legislation since the US Civil War. Heroes? How do we decide?

Does one act, like Dirksen, make a hero? Do a few flaws, whether Schuman or Mickey Mantle or John Kennedy, deny hero status?

I think about two recent “heros” from my own home town. Mariano Rivera, Yankee relief pitcher and a transplant, employed people, supports kids, built a church. Ray Rice, now disgraced Ravens running back and a born native, worked tirelessly with kids and generously supported the schools. How do we help kids distinguish?

If we want our kids to have heros we must reclaim the heroic narrative. We need to stop focusing, especially with our younger kids, on the historic figures of a disconnected past, and start looking at heroic action and heroic lives in the world our children know.

John Glenn is a hero to my generation because he risked his life not just for his nation but for a belief in science, a belief in wonder, and, we discovered later, for a deep love of his wife, of his community, of his nation and its most vulnerable citizens. He lived a model life through a series of historic moments.

Who is out there today being that kind of person? Let us find them, celebrate them, and abandon our willingness to accept much less in our leadership.

“We tend to think of heroes as being those who are well known, but America is made up of a whole nation of heroes who face problems that are very difficult, and their courage remains largely unsung. Millions of individuals are heroes in their own right.” — John Glenn

30 May 2016

The
World Trade Center, as it existed, say 1970 to 2001, was truly one of
my favorite places on earth. Others I know describe it as “ugly” or
“blocky,” or, in the language of The Atlantic or The New York Times, “anti-urban,” but they’ll never convince me.

I
watched it most days for many years, key years for me, childhood,
adolescence and young adulthood. Somehow, is it possible? I have a
memory of my father, New York World Telegram & Sun
in his hands, reading to me about how people feared that the television
signals from the Empire State Building would get scrambled when they
echoed off these not yet built super towers.

I remember a fascination with the ‘seawall on land’ — what I understood the slurry wall
to be, with the ‘straw within a straw’ framing system, with those
massive exterior trusses, with the whole giant platform underground…

So
I watched it rise. Maybe it was, for me, a symbol of ‘my city,’ new and
challenging all the old. The elegant brick skyscrapers we’d inherited,
the Empire State, the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Center, Daily
News Building, the Wall Street towers — the Bank of the Manhattan Company Building,* Cities Service Building, One Wall Street
— were the work of my father’s childhood, and his generation were
justifiably proud. The sleek postwar creations, Levert House, the
Seagram’s Building, Chase Manhattan Plaza, were also that generation’s
work — part of their triumph in the war and domination of the world.
Buildings like the United Nations, the reclad/rebuilt Allied Chemical Tower, the GM Building seemed to belong to the real baby boomers, our older siblings and cousins who grew up with moms at home.

The World Trade Center, though, was all ours.

It
was huge and aggressive and incomprehensible in scale. As it began to
be clad in curtain wall it was also postmodern before any of us knew the
word, it’s tracery owing more to the Woolworth Building — that tower
displaced in the city’s heart by the structures of our parents’
childhood — than to anything since. It became changeable across the
changing light of the day, it wasn’t a solid solid.

Maybe most importantly, it was a beacon, calling us back to the city so much of the previous generation had fled.

And
when built it was an enormous playground, from the mall — ahh to hang
out watching the 6 pm human waterfall at PATH Square — to the plaza, to Windows on the World, where faux sophistication and the greatest views ever could be had for the cost of an overpriced drink.

OK then. Nostalgia.

History
is cruel and my father’s landmarks stand and mine is gone. And my
response to that loss was typical: rebuild it as it was, stop calling it
‘the twin towers’ or ‘north tower’ (to know it was to say “Trade
Center” and “One” or “Two”), put the same restaurant back on top…

Nostalgia
of course leads to the rejection of the new — an almost unconscious
anger toward the world moving on. But cities are dynamic for reasons
good and bad. Like many things…

I
am glad that my son knew the Trade Center that was. I am glad he looked
out from up top and looked up those staggering aluminum clad sides…

…but
now my kid has taught me to love the new One World Trade Center, to
enjoy the park, to marvel at the complexity of the new design. And he
taught me that with just a few simple statements that made me look anew.

He
started simply by saying that the new One World Trade Center — then
just a forming skeleton — ”wasn’t bad. It would be a great building in
another place, maybe Houston.” And with that I looked at the shape
again, trying to put my generalized disdain for architects Skidmore Owings Merrill to bed for a moment.

Next,
glass walls in place, he encouraged me to stand near the phone company
building and look up. And I did, and found myself enthralled.

Once
here, at the magical infinite tower, I could begin to find all the
rest. I could start to see the wheel of towers — the not-quite-lost
magnificence of Daniel Libeskind’s plan —
emerging around the park and the great lost dinosaur skeleton on
Santiago Calatrava’s train station. I could see the memorial
park — assuming the morbid museum will be forgotten — becoming the kind
of gentle green spot downtown has needed so much more of. (The true success of a memorial can only be measured after all who remember the actual event have gone.)

A parable, of course.

There
are so many levels of learning science here. From my passion for the
gigantic statement of a new day I learned history, I learned the science
of construction, I found a love of math in the structure. I began an
understanding of semiotics — the signs and symbols that create cultural
comprehension — that has stayed with me for life. I learned the choices
of urban spaces and the patterns of city movement.

Imagine what I might have learned if the schools I attended had supported passion-based learning.

From its destruction I learned something much more deeply about those symbols, but that’s another story.

And
from my conversion on the new building, my shift from calling it “a bad
Houston skyscraper,” the slow acceptance of the loss of both the
original buildings and the loss of the pure artistry of Libeskind’s vision, I learned about my own struggles with the impact of change.

So
much of what continues to haunt education rides on the back of cultural
remembrance and image preservation. It begins, all too often with
teachers teaching as they were taught. And it ends with the preservation
of crap like hall passes and bells ringing, late slips and petty rules,
because, “we’ve always had them,” and, “we don’t want to change
everything right away.”

But
you know… sometimes you do. I have friends who will bemoan the loss of
the ‘Radio Row’ neighborhood to the first World Trade Center. But the
towers rose and Philippe Petit made them instantly a part of the rich
fabric of the city. They were beacons in a dark time.

The
loss of that complex was an incalculable tragedy, but, in its wake is a
new city with new aspirations and perhaps much higher goals.

We
were not born to live in the past. And if we are educators we simply
cannot afford to live even in the present. The future is our children’s
time, and we must be brave enough, every day, to help to take them
there.

Imagine
you are 3 or 4 feet tall, a meter — give or take 10 cm — and you climb
off this huge yellow bus (the vehicle that teaches you that seat belts
are not important), or you climb out of mom or dad’s car, and — you are
at your school.

Imagine you are 16 or 17, frustrated, tired, angry with the world, and you drive up to your school and walk toward the doors.

Imagine you are 12, and home has its… umm, challenges. And you get off a chaotic school bus and walk toward your school.

What happens next?

Now stop right there.

You
cannot tell me. You don’t know. At the very best you might know the
User Interface you have designed, but in all likelihood you haven’t
really designed anything.

Quick,
what signs are around your school? What does it say on the doors? How
do your entries look from the point of view 3 feet above the ground? Or
with the eyes of a teenager. (Do you have more than one entrance? Are
they equal? Equitable?) What does it sound like? Smell like?

“The hospital entrance
should be as open-plan as possible. Make use of as much natural light,
greenery, water (I’ve worked in a hospital with a small waterfall in the
lobby), and background music.”

Hospital lobby (top) Detroit DTW Airport (above)

We
don’t think about this much in education. Even the best of us. In
retail, in hospitality, there are usually people assigned to look at
everything — not just every day, but every hour — to see if the message
is right. Why? Sometimes for sales, to interest an audience in something
we want them interested in. Sometimes for mood, the United tunnel at O’Hare Airport in Chicago is there to relax people.

Crossing between parts of United’s Chicago-O’Hare Terminal means moving through a work of art

Piano music in hospital lobbies does the same.

This
is just the very tip of the iceberg. But it’s a big tip. Because that
first impression sets a tone that often extends through every school
day. We try to help — our principals and APs are out front every morning
trying to greet every child, balancing bad architecture and
unintentional user interface design with our humanity. And inside
teachers try to decorate and greet and support, but… how much more
effective we might be if our user interface design was intentional, and
intentionally designed to support children?

What do kids see? What do they feel? What do they smell? What do they hear? What is their experience as they move through your school?

One of the things that is clear is that every
single thing kids see, hear, feel, smell, taste, sends a message about
your school. Every single thing. And many of the messages schools send
are as awful as they are unintentional.

One
of my favorite signs in America is on I-95 in Maryland, just north of
our nation’s capital. “End DUI Enforcement Zone” it reads, and I always
want to say, “time to crack open those beers, boys.” It reminds me of
those ridiculous “Drug Free School Zone” signs. As kids at at least one
Michigan school wrote on the back of one of those signs, “Now Leaving
Drug Free School Zone.”

Which
explains why I asked an elementary school principal to take down a sign
over the front door that read, “Enter to Learn.” “Should the other side
say, “Leaving School, Stop Learning”?” I almost asked.

“We used to have this ‘no hats’ rule,” says one of our high school principals. “We
had it for good reasons, trying to limit certain negative cultural
symbols, but, every morning we greeted our children by telling them to
take their hats off. It was awful. So now we allow hats, and when the
kids arrive we get to just say hello to them.”

So, in no particular order, ten look fors to define the user experience in a positive way.

One — Clean up your entries. Get rid of signs with the word “No.”
That’s just a bad start word. If you must (and we must), organize a row
of international symbols for no smoking, no alcohol, no guns. Repeat as
necessary. And instead make sure there are positives. Not cheerleading
necessarily, how about questions to ponder? A @Wonderopolis wonder of
the day? Videos playing of interesting stuff? How will you welcome kids
and sell the cool learning inside?

Two
— Have many fewer rules, and ONLY have rules you can successfully defend
in a debate with a student. Why can’t kids chew gum? Kids chew gum in
all our schools, teachers chew gum in all our schools. The issue with
gum is — I am usually told — with its disposal (under chairs, desks, on
the floor). So the rule should be about how we throw things away. Kids
can understand that rule. Kids can’t understand rules about — not eating
or drinking in class or around computers. They can’t understand rules
about — hello elementary schools
— staying in straight lines and don’t touch the walls while in the
corridor. They can’t understand bans on cell phones or hats or lots of
kinds of clothing. They can’t understand why a they need a pass in the
halls or why, on occasion, they can’t just skip a class and go to the
library. Why can’t they understand these things? Because they watch the
world and they know what adults do.

Three
— Turn off your bells. Turn off your PA. Schools do not need bells.
We’ve all got our phones, there are clocks everywhere. We know what time
it is. The factory whistle can go away now. That’s part A. Part B is
stop interrupting your kids. It takes kids over 5 minutes to really get back to work after a 30 second announcement.
And it’s 2016 people, in elementary schools email the teachers. In
secondary put it on Twitter. Or send a note to the effected classroom.

Four
— Eliminate lunch detention and no recess punishments. Those are cruel
punishments which demolish your credibility with every child.

Five
— Working graffiti is good. When kids see other kids’ work they get
inspired. Which makes the dry erase marker your best friend. Our kids
write everywhere. On floors, on Windows, on desks and tabletops, of
course on whiteboards. It not only leverages the power of large muscle
movement and lets thinking quickly take shape, it gets other kids
interested.

Six
— Make sure that no teacher desk blocks student access to a window.
Unfortunately we’ve all seen it, teachers who grab the best corner of
the room and set up house for themselves. And few things send a stronger
message that the room is not the kids’ domain. Natural daylight is
essential for kids, and so those windows belong to them. Obvious corollary: clean off all of those window sills. That’s kid space.

Seven — Always allow passion time. In every day, in every half day, let kids chase what matters to them. Children, and everyone in K-12 is a child, need space to explore their world, which is not necessarily your world.

Eight
— Skip the homework. Haven’t you taken up enough of their day? Let them
have time to be children in a real way. So why not send them off at the
end of the school day with things to wonder about, or maybe to find
someone to share their discoveries with, or with hopes that they might
imagine a story to share tomorrow?

Ten — If
it’s glass, it’s supposed to be transparent. Stop covering windows,
windows to the outside, windows to the corridors, windows into rooms,
windows in doors. What are you hiding in there? What are you doing that is bad for kids to see?
School is no place to keep the learning and creations of other kids a
secret. It is no place for the adults to be plotting against children
behind drawn shades. It is no place for keeping the outside world out.
Understand, every covered window says you are hiding something in a
place that’s supposed to be about openness and discovery.

Everything
we do tells our users — our children — something. What is your school,
from every inch of the building to every word we say, saying? What is it
that our kids are experiencing?

Ask yourself this, every time you walk into your school, every time you speak, or do, or plan.

29 January 2016

On the night I learned of the murder of Deven Black a series of images flashing through my mind kept me awake. I thought of Deven presenting with Pam Moran and myself on Library Transformation at an EduCon long ago. I thought of Deven sitting with us in a Herald Square restaurant as Hurricane Sandy approached New York talking about securing grants to help support the kids in his school.

Of course, perhaps I can blame my experience as a New York Cop for this, I saw the unseen murder of this gentle gentleman. Grotesque imagery that will haunt many of us for a long, long time.

But then, finally, some other images came into focus. I saw a late July evening in the lobby of our County Building as the Albemarle County Public Schools held a graduation ceremony, music, speeches, cap and gown, refreshments, for the one student who had completed high school during summer school.

And I saw a meeting in one of our high schools, with a half dozen adults including our superintendent sitting around a table trying to build supports around one kid, a homeless emancipated minor, so he could be safe for his senior year.

And I saw Becky Fisher and I - yes, two school system director-level people - heading a dozen miles down Route 20 to help work out a laptop plan for one seventh grader who needed help. We went together twice, or maybe three times. We needed to make sure we were doing the right things for that one child.

And so, I felt guilty and good in one terrifying mix.

Where I work, in the Albemarle County Public Schools, we say, "All Means All" a lot. We say it when we work so hard to make sure that every child has the chance at the experiences that open their world, and create the greatest possible opportunity. We say it when we work to build out our own 4G LTE network so our students, wherever they live or wherever they go in our 726 square mile area, have access to broadband. We say it when many of our "Gifted Resource Teachers" push in to work with every student in our schools, or when our most vulnerable high schoolers are offered a program design that matches that offered to our academic "stars."

We say it, and we mean it... and yet... there was Deven, who was in many ways a part of our family, struggling on the streets of New York, living in homeless shelters, his gifts as a teacher, as an advocate for children, locked away where he could not use them.

We were not there for Deven. And maybe we could not have been. Maybe no one could have been. But... how is that possible? For it is not only Deven - an adult far away - who eludes us. For all my warm scenes of us working for that one child, we cannot pretend that there aren't others we are missing. Even here, where we say, "All Means All."

We shared our theories at FETC 2016, and we genuinely strive for this, yet...

All Means All isn't something one person can do. It isn't something most people can do. It isn't something one family can do, or even a whole school system can do. I've lived a complicated life, and I've seen our streets and communities as a kid, as a designer, as a cop, as an educator, from an office in a homeless service agency, as a friend trying to help, from our schools, from New York to Michigan to Virginia and beyond: and I know this. We all know this.

And so we might give up, the impossibility of the task before us. We might descend into depression ourselves, overwhelmed by the hurt.

“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a
loved one who is in need and ask the same question: We are willing to
help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed? For it is true we can
seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of
ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is
not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude
us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete
understanding.”
―
Norman Maclean,
A River Runs Through It and Other Stories

So I have no real answers. I guess when I am at work I pretend that I do, but that is what we do. Those of us who are in public education, those of us who work in those "Statue of Liberty Schools" - schools that welcome every child that comes to our doors - do what we do because we are committed to the idea that every child matters. And where I work I do believe we do as good a job as any place at really working to make that true... but we fall short. We all fall short.

All Means All would need everyone on board. We'd need universal health care and mental health care. We'd care for all of our children, no matter what we thought of their parents. We'd stop letting people fall into desperate poverty, and we'd do everything possible to close the opportunity gap. We'd pay public servants better than we'd pay corporate gamblers, and no one could work full time and find themselves hungry.

In short, we'd be in a place without homeless children, and without Deven Black walking New York's streets, his talents wasted. But we do not live in that place.

Yet... a long time ago I wrote that we needed to "know" students less, and "see" them more. In other words, to stop believing all that we "hear" - in reports or in the teachers' lounge - and to begin to see these students anew each day. That is a suspension of judgement, a willingness to believe in the possible, and as Scott Fitzgerald wrote in The Great Gatsby, "reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope."

"So we beat on, boats against the current," doing what Deven told me in early December 2015 that he was doing. DMing me from a lower Manhattan shelter, he wrote of reading to those he shared rooms with, pushing his fellow shelter inhabitants to get library cards... he thought he was "making a little difference again."

I hope that I can do the same. And so every day, I say, we say, "All means all."

02 August 2015

False correlation, you will say, and you will be right. But my mind is nothing but a random connector of things, so here I am...

"For
more than half an hour 38 respectable, law‐abiding cit­izens in Queens
watched a killer stalk and stab a woman in three separate attacks in Kew
Gardens.

Twice
the sound of their voices and the sudden glow of their bedroom lights
interrupted him and frightened him off. Each time he returned, sought
her out and stabbed her again. Not one person telephoned ‐ the po­lice
during the assault; one wit­ness called after the woman was dead." - The New York Times, March 27, 1964

On a Saturday morning - I'll admit a Saturday morning at the end of a frustrated, angry week, I began to throw out challenges to educators on Twitter:

As a former New York City Cop, as a native New Yorker,, the name "Kitty Genovese" can begin a world of conversation and argument. Few stories seem more depressing about how people come to see others as statistics, simply because this story seems to have been - at least in legend - the beginning of something awful.

"The socio-psychological phenomena that were studied after the killing —
notably the “bystander effect,” by which individuals pass the buck to
other witnesses when present at an act of violence — are universal and
ongoing..." - John Anderson in The New York Times

And with these two streams connecting, I went back to my Tweet: "I've been a cop and an educator - and cops are more likely to turn in bad cops than teachers are to do the same."

When I first went to work in a high school I thought two things, or maybe it was three. First I thought - I even said it to people - "I think lighthouse keepers have more peer-to-peer interaction than teachers." Exaggeration certainly, but teachers seemed stunningly isolated to me. They locked themselves in their classrooms, never watched each other "practice their craft," rarely discussed what worked and didn't work. I'd worked in many fields on my way to education and I was shocked.

Second I thought, "I know who the great teachers are and I know who the terrible teachers are." And I knew that within a couple of weeks of hearing kids talk and walking the corridors looking into classrooms. Then I realized that pretty much everybody even slightly observant in the building knew the same. And then I said, "Forget that 'blue wall of silence' crap. Cops are more likely to turn in bad cops than teachers are to turn in bad teachers."

Drop a dime... the anonymous call

Cops do turn in bad cops you know. In the NYPD the phrase was (perhaps still is) "drop a dime" on someone (though phone calls had long, long before ceased to be a dime in my day - please). To turn them in anonymously to Internal Affairs. It happened, it does happen, quite a bit. There's something about working day to day with bad cops - people who hurt people - people who ignore people's rights - that gets good cops (in good departments) to break through that blue wall.

Cops are more likely to turn in bad cops than teachers are to turn in bad teachers

Why? Is it because the stakes seem lower?

The fourth thing I realized - back in that first school - was that bad teaching professionals do more damage every day than bad cops and bad doctors. Really.

"Now I know what you are saying, no school would ever do something like
this. I mean, we now know that emotional abuse is bad, and we know that
isolation, rejection, and public shaming is emotionally abusive, and we
would never allow our teachers to engage in it. Shockingly however,
emotional abuse is a problem in school. As a parent I have had to go to
bat for my kids several times. For example, my son’s teacher put his
name on a board and publicly humiliated him for not doing his work
properly. When I told her that her public humiliation was making him
feel bad, all she could say was that if he wanted to avoid the bad
feelings, he’d have to perform to her expectations." - The Emotional Abuse of Our Children - 2013

I know that teachers know teachers who do things like take away lunch periods from kids who haven't gotten work done. Teachers who reduce grades for kids who 'move too much' in class. Who take away outside play time because of minor non-compliance. Who yell and humiliate, or who just humiliate. Who strip adolescents of their evenings because they think homework is a great thing. Who will keep children uncomfortable for hours on end - day after day (wasn't that a CIA torture technique?). I know teachers who know teachers who are bullies every day - but we hide behind the ideas that they are simply "tough" and "old-fashioned."

I know something else - maybe many kids will survive those teachers, but in every school there are kids in the classroom next door who will be permanently damaged - whose allostatic load will be pushed into the breaking realm - by teachers like that. These children are usually our most vulnerable from the start, and they will be most damaged - for life. And I know that those kids are calling for help, just as Kitty Genovese was, and what are we doing?

Undetected by outsiders because, as on that night 51 years ago in Kew Gardens, nobody picks up the phone, nobody makes the call. "Colleagues may know about the behavior through rumors or persistent complaints, but think there is nothing they can do. School officials may
have reason to believe it is occurring, yet fail to act. Almost without
exception, offending teachers mask their mistreatment of students as
part of a legitimate role function, using the rhetoric of “motivation”
or “discipline” to justify their actions."

Extreme, but... how many teachers in this school knew about this? C'mon...

Bystander Effect is Bystander Effect. Whether its a dark night on an urban street or in the bright lights of a middle school. And crime is crime. Is a pursesnatching ok enough that we don't call 9-1-1? Is simply abusing children over homework ok enough that we don't go to our principal? We either step up and hear calls for help or we choose to not do that. Stepping up has risks in every case, even calling 9-1-1 can lead to real issues down the road. "Dropping a dime" on a colleague seems as risky an employee behavior as possible. But do we have room in our schools who will not step up for children?

That social fabric is what wraps our children and let's them grow into healthy, safe adults. It is really just that, and we cannot let that fabric fray. The SPLC notes that, "There is typically a high degree of agreement among students (and colleagues) on which teachers engage in bullying behavior," and that, "Teachers are perceived to bully with impunity; they are seldom held accountable for their conduct."